


A History of Broken Dreams

by AlannaofRoses



Series: Breaking News: I Love You [3]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Abuse of Minors by People in Authority, Angst, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Spot/Race, Found Family, Jack Adopts Strays, Language, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character- The Previous Manhattan Leader, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlannaofRoses/pseuds/AlannaofRoses
Summary: Anthony Higgins and Charlie Morris are 11 and 12, respectively, and living rough lives on the streets of New York. When the two boys find themselves joining the Manhattan Newsies, 14-year-old Jack Kelly takes them under his wing. But when tragedy strikes, the boy now known as Racetrack must find the strength inside himself to protect the one person who has always been there for him.This is the prequel to Headline Heart, and tells the story of Jack Kelly and the Manhattan Newsies before the strike through the eyes of Race.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Breaking News: I Love You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908613
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	1. Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Yup. I started another story. Remember what I said about impulse control? Yeah, I don't have it. Anyway. Fair warning, this story is going to take a backseat to Me + You unless I hit a snag on that one, so chapters may be very slow in coming. I will eventually put this as the first story in the series where it belongs, but since Headline Heart is the only one actualy complete it'll stay there for now. There will be eventual Spot/Race but there is a lot that needs to happen first so be aware of that. 
> 
> Also, shoutout to @NewsiesSquare on Tumblr who lent me the use of their wonderful Refuge headcanons for Jack. There is a link to the specific post on chapter 12 of Headline Heart, or just go check them out in general!

Anthony Higgins is eleven years old, and he is the best pickpocket in New York City.

His father had taught him the tricks. How to distract. How to perform the lifts. How to dispose of the evidence. How to run if someone caught on.

Of course, his father hadn’t done so well at that last one, in the end.

Anthony had spent the last two years stealing for fun. But for the last two days, he’d been stealing to ease the ache hunger left in his belly.

Whatever tricks his father taught him, Anthony mastered. And once he’d mastered them he’d improved them, streamlined them, perfected them to the point where no one could touch him.

No one noticed the lanky blond kid, who hadn’t yet hit his growth spurt. No one noticed him in the bustling crowds at the Sheepshead Racetrack. No one noticed the wallets he lifted with tiny, clever fingers.

Not until today.

“Hey!”

Anthony doesn’t stop. He breathes evenly, telling himself the shout isn’t likely for him.

“Kid! Hey, stop!”

He glances over his shoulder casually.

The boy he’d just swiped from is glaring at him, adjusting the stack of papers over his shoulder as he begins to advance.

Shit.

Anthony didn’t normally pickpocket Newsies, or any street kid. He figured they were struggling just as much as him. But choices were slim today, and Anthony was hungry, and the boy’s bag had been temptingly unguarded.

Perhaps not as unguarded as it had seemed.

“Stop!”

Anthony runs instead.

He has a split second to choose his route as he exits the track. He picks familiarity, racing for the bridge that leads back to the safety of Manhattan. He knows he’ll never lose a Brooklyn Newsie on the older boy’s home turf, but if he can dodge long enough to hit Manhattan proper, Anthony knows a hundred ways to disappear.

It’s hard going. Anthony’s fast, but the Brooklyn boy is tall, his legs eating up ground. Anthony’s limbs haven’t yet lengthened with the growth spurt promised by his father’s stature, and he’s taking two or three strides for everyone of the older boy’s. Still, tiny has some advantages, and he weaves through the crowds with ease that the other boy struggles to match.

They reach the bridge in a dead heat, Anthony ahead by a nose but losing ground fast. His breath is acid in his aching lungs, his legs burn and tremble with every stride. He grits his teeth and looses a final burst of speed as the blessed ground of Manhattan meets his shoes. The Newsie shouts behind him, but Anthony is away, ducking into a side street, then another, then a third in quick succession.

In no time flat, he’s lost the older boy.

He slows to a jog, not quite trusting his luck and wanting to get as far from Brooklyn as possible in case the boy decides to search.

His breath is coming in harsh pants, his vision swimming, and he blames his exhaustion for the fact that he doesn’t even see the kid until he trips over something and falls flat on his face.

“Ow.” Anthony moans.

“Hey, sorry. You okay?”

Anthony looks up, blinking the stars from his vision. A kid stands over him, looking concerned. He’s a scrawny thing, all skin and bones. He’s leaning heavily on a rough wooden crutch, one leg twisted and dragging behind him.

Anthony snorts. “I’m the one who almost ran you over, and you’re apologizing?”

The kid shrugs. “You’re also the one who tripped over my crutch and fell on your face. Figured you’d suffered enough.”

Anthony scowls at the reminder, sitting up and brushing at the dirt on his pants. “I’m fine.”

The kid looked unconvinced, but he let it go all the same. “Hey, what were youse running from anyway? Someone chasing you?”

“Was. I lost ‘em.” Anthony said proudly.

“Well that’s a relief. I’m not too good at running these days.”

“How’d you end up with a gimp leg anyway?”

The boy shrugged, looking away. “Got sick a couple years back. Was lucky the leg was all I lost.”

“Sorry.” Anthony said, abashed. “Sometimes I talk without thinkin’ about it.”

“S’ok. I’m Charlie, by the way.”

“Anthony.”

“Nice ta meet ya.”

They shook hands.

“So how long ya been on the streets, Charlie?”

“Bout six months. The nuns have been feeding me some, and a gimp gets a decent amount of sympathy. You?”

“Bout two days.” Anthony admitted. “Pops got hisself arrested.”

“Sorry.”

“Eh, he deserved it.”

“And so do you, ya little brat!”

Both Anthony and Charlie froze, Anthony spinning around to see the hulking Brooklyn Newsie advancing on them. His first instinct was to run, but then he remembered Charlie. The poor kid was cowering behind him, clutching his crutch as if it would protect him.

“What do we do?” Charlie whispered, his voice quaking.

“I don’t know.” Anthony said, backing up.

“This your thievin’ friend?” The Brooklyn Newsie rumbled. “I’se gonna pound you both inta the dirt like the scum youse are!”

“Hey, hey! What seems ta be the matta here?” A new voice broke in.

Anthony, Charlie, and the Brooklyn Newsie all looked up in surprise. A boy of about fourteen hopped off the low wall he’d been standing on and sauntered over, all smooth grace and cocky arrogance.

“Buster, you weren’t about to soak a crip and a fish, were ya?”

“This fish here stole my money.” Buster growled.

The cocky boy eyed Anthony. “Well, an that wasn’t very nice, was it. Give the coins back, Fish, and Buster’ll be on his way.”

“But…” Anthony protested despite himself. His stomach whined at the thought of giving up the promise of dinner.

“You wanna get youself and your friend here soaked, Fish?”

“No.” Anthony whispered. He held out the fistful of pennies, wincing as they dropped into Buster’s palm with a pleasant clinking.

Buster snorted. “Fine, Kelly. I’ll leave them alone this time. But if I see Fish stealing from a Brooklyn Newsie again, he gets whats coming to him.”

“Not in Manhattan he don’t.” Kelly said, his eyes dark. “Show yourself out, Buster.”

Buster curled his lip warningly at Anthony, and then he was gone.

Anthony relaxed, even as he mourned the loss of the money.

Kelly turned to eye them. “So, what’s a crip and a fish doing stealing from Newsies in Brooklyn anyway?”

“I ain’t a fish.” Anthony snarled. “I’ve been working the racetrack for years.”

“Fine, Racetrack.” Kelly amended. “What were you doing stealing from a Brooklyn Newsie?”

Anthony looked down at his shoes. “I was hungry.” He mumbled.

“Hmm.” Kelly turned to Charlie. “And you?”

“I wasn’t involved until he tripped over my crutch. We was just getting acquainted.” Charlie said.

“Well then. Crutchie, Racetrack, let’s go get youse something to eat, eh?”

Anthony’s mouth started to water, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep the desperation from his face. He suspected Kelly knew anyway, by the look the older boy gave him. Kelly led them through the streets, careful to keep to places that Charlie could easily navigate with his crutch. In short order, they reached an old brick building that proclaimed itself the Lodging House.

“C’mon in.” Kelly said, waving them on.

Anthony hesitated a moment, but decided to trust Kelly for now.

The inside of the Lodging House was clean, but worn. Well-loved was perhaps the best term. Patched and faded like an old jacket, but still good and warm and comforting. Anthony liked it instantly.

“Hey, Kloppman!” Kelly called. “Can we gets my new friends something to eat?”

An older gentleman emerged from behind the counter. He smiled at Kelly, half fondness, half exasperation. “Taking in strays again, Jack?”

“Don’t worry.” Jack teased back. “I’m pretty sure these two are housebroken.”

Charlie snorted.

“Come right in boys.” Kloppman waved them into a large room dominated by a worn, sturdy wooden table. “Now, food and board here isn’t usually free, you understand. But I think we can make an exception just this once.”

He moved past them into the kitchen. Anthony and Charlie sat on two of the mismatched chairs scattered about the table. Jack remained standing, leaning up against the wall near the door, his dark eyes studying them. There was something old in those eyes, like Jack Kelly knew something the rest of them didn’t. It was intriguing and compelling and a bit sad, all at the same time.

Then Kloppman entered with two bowls of something that smelled utterly delicious, and Anthony forgot all about the mysterious boy.

He and Charlie both inhaled the stew, scraping the last drops from their bowls with the tiny piece of dry bread they were given. It was no fancy fare, but it was the best Anthony had eaten in two days.

“Easy boys.” Kloppman said gently. “No one’s gonna take it away. Don’t make yourselves sick, now.”

With a nod to Jack, the old man left them to it. Jack waited until both boys were finished with every last crumb before speaking.

“So. What’s your stories? Racetrack?”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably.

“S’ok.” Jack said quietly. “Nobody’s gonna hold nothin’ against ya here. I just gotta know if there’s any trouble comin’.”

“No trouble.” Anthony assured him. “Only guy chasin’ me was the one you scared off. Ma’s dead, pa got hisself caught and locked up for a while. I ain’t got nobody lookin’ for me.”

Jack nodded. “Crutchie?”

“Me neither.” Charlie shrugged. He tapped his leg. “Same polio that took my leg carried off my family too. Was staying with some relatives, but I got to be too much of a burden, so I’ve been living on the nuns hospitality for about six months.”

Jack’s eyes flared, but he kept an impressive lid on his emotions. Anthony suspected angry outburst probably didn’t go over well in a house filled with street kids.

“In that case,” Jack said, “I’ve got an offer for youse. There’s a bunk and a hot meal every night for a kid as can pay. You can earn that pay as a Newsie, sellin’ papes around the city. Its work, an’ its out in all weathers and conditions, an’ it don’t pay much. But it’s enough, if you gots nothin’ else. And you’ll have a family, a sorts. We looks out for each other here, like with Buster today.”

“I’m in.” Charlie said, as soon as Jack paused for breath. The kid was practically vibrating in his seat.

Anthony looked between him and Jack uncertainly.

Jack smiled at him softly. “Ya ain’t gotta decide this second, Racetrack.”

Oddly enough, it was that which decided him. Not just Jack’s patient understanding, but the lack of pressure, the open invitation. And above all, the name. Racetrack. Jack had already chosen him, and all Anthony had to do was accept.

“I’m in.” Racetrack said.

Jack grinned. “All right then, boys! Let’s get youse two bunks, and then we can catch the evening pape and I’ll show ya how it’s done.”

Jack took the steps slow, instinctively slowing to Crutchie’s pace. Racetrack followed his lead, trying not to chafe as Crutchie struggled. Finally, the three emerged into a cozy, clean-swept space filled to the brim with bunkbeds separated by small chests of drawers. One corner of the room was hidden behind a threadbare curtain, the light from the window outlining a few more bunks behind it.

“Welcome to the lodging part of the Lodging House, boys.” Jack said, waving his arms in an expansive gesture the room didn’t quite warrant. “Pick any bunk as don’t have a pillow on it, save the ones behind the curtain. That’s for the girls.”

“Girls?” Racetrack asked.

“Yeah.” Jack shrugged. “Got a few in the ranks. You’ll meet ‘em later. But we don’t treat ‘em any different, ya hear? Newsies is Newsies, no questions about it.”

“Aye, aye, boss.” Crutchie saluted.

“Jack.” Jack corrected. “I’m not the boss, not yet anyway. Drover’s the Manhattan leader, you’ll meet him when we go down to the square. I’m just his second.”

Racetrack eyed him with interest. “So, you will be leader someday, then.”

Jack shrugged. “When Drover ages out, sure. If I stick around that long.”

“Where you gonna go?” Crutchie asked, situating himself on a bottom bunk near the door.

“Santa Fe.” Jack said, a faraway look in his eyes. “Drover’s from there, moved here when his pops got work. He says it’s awful pretty out there. Clean, and green, and the only buildings are short little things made of clay, no giant ugly things like here.”

“I thought New York was supposed to be the city of dreams.” Crutchie said.

“Well, maybe my dreams is different than everyone else’s.” Jack replied. “Youse ready? Don’t wanna be late on your first day.”

Racetrack scanned the room, picking a top bunk that was unclaimed and marking it in his head. “Ready.”

“Come on then.”

Jack led them down the stairs, past Kloppman, who waved encouragingly, and out onto the city streets. It hadn’t been all that long since Racetrack had been walking them, but they looked different all the same. Or maybe it was him who was different. He had a new name, a new job, and quite possibly some new friends too. His life had been utterly turned upside down two days ago when his father had been arrested, and for the first time since then, Racetrack felt right side up again.

He followed Jack down the bustling city blocks, Crutchie tapping along at his side, ready for his first day of being a Newsie.


	2. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race finds his place with the Newsies, and a nightmare reveals a startling secret about Race and Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Some housekeeping while I have you here:
> 
> First, November is almost here! NaNoWriMo is coming up (scarily) fast, and I do hope to get some work done on my original fiction, so chapters may slow dramatically for those thirty days. Feel free to keep up with me here or on Tumblr @alannaofroseswritesfanfic. I'd love to hear from you, answer any questions you might have, or take ideas for Minute by Minute! 
> 
> Second, I am so excited to announce that I have commissioned some artwork in honor of this series! I have placed an order for three pieces total, one from Headline Heart and two from Me + You. Special thanks to @melodyatmidnight for helping me pick. I am so excited for those, and once they come in I will be doing a reveal on my Tumblr and hopefully posting them with their respective stories here as well. 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with this series! I'm going to get back to writing.
> 
> Alanna

The square is a riot of chaos, and Race feels instantly at home. Newsie square has the same energy as the racetrack he’d called his stomping grounds for years, a thrumming pulse just under the surface that sets his heart racing and his feet alight.

Next to him, Crutchie perks up too, looking around with awed interest. He catches Race’s eye, and Race can’t help but grin. Any doubts he’d still had about Jack Kelly’s offer evaporated. He’d been born to do this.

Jack leads them into the center of the square, where a muscular, dark-skinned teen is holding court over the fey crowd.

“Drover!” Jack calls, waving Race and Crutchie on. “Got some new kids for the ranks.”

Drover sizes them up with a keen eye, his gaze catching on the crutch for a long moment. “Cowboy, you know I ain’t got time for more fish. Not with winter comin’ on.”

“Racetrack’s no fish.” Jack defends. “He picked Buster’s pockets, an’ got away. Would’a been eating fine tonight if he hadn’t tripped over Crutchie here.”

“Fine.” Drover said. “Send Racetrack with… Specs!”

Another dark-skinned teen, about the same age as Jack, emerged from the crowds pushing a crooked pair of glasses up his nose. “Yeah, boss?”

“Take Racetrack sellin’ with ya today. I expect a full report.”

“Sure thing boss.” Specs saluted. He grinned at Race. “Sup, new kid?”

Race looked back at Jack. “What about Crutchie?”

Drover looked uncertain, but Jack answered confidently.

“I’ll take Crutchie as my partner today. A gimp gets a decent amount of sympathy on the streets.”

Crutchie opened his mouth to protest, but Race saw Jack grip the younger boy’s wrist in warning. He gritted his teeth but subsided, everyone seeming to hold their breath as they waited for Drover’s verdict.

“Fine.” The older boy said at last, shrugging. “But if ya don’t make board tonight, it’s on you, Cowboy.”

“Aye, aye, Drover.”

The bell rang, Newsies shuffling into the line. Drover strutted to the lead, exchanging words with the man behind the stall as he flipped through the day’s offerings. Race, Jack, Crutchie, and Specs ended up about midway down the line.

Crutchie was seething. “I don’t need a gimp leg to sell papes, Jack. I ain’t looking for pity.”

“I ain’t got none for ya.” Jack shot back. “Ise been on the street since I was eight. I know what it takes to survive out here. You either gots it or you don’t, and you kid? You gots it. But ya have to prove yourself out here. Drover ain’t gonna give you no free passes.”

Crutchie looked slightly appeased. “Fine.”

“Good.”

Specs cleared his throat calmly. “If you’re done? Let’s discuss selling tactics.”

It takes Racetrack about five minutes and three sold papes to decide he never wants to do anything else. He’s never felt so alive. Everywhere else its always, ‘be quiet, Anthony’, ‘sit still, kid’, ‘the adults are talking’. But selling papes, louder is better. Energy is better. And he can talk over the adults all he wants. Specs watches him closely until he’s sold about five papes and then basically cuts him loose, grinning. It’s the best day of Race’s life.

By the time he sells his last pape, it’s nearing midday, the sun hot in the sky. Race has blisters on his feet, and his muscles and vocal cords ache in ways he’s never experienced before. He has at least three paper cuts, one stubbed toe, and a minor sunburn across his nose. He’s giddy with excitement.

“What happens now?” He asks Specs.

Specs smiles bemusedly at him. “Now we take a breather. We’ve got a few hours before we go back to get the evening pape.”

“We get to do this again today?”

Specs laughed. “Yeah kid. Twice a day, and three times on Sundays.”

“Oh man. Why haven’t I been a Newsie my whole life?”

“Just you wait till it rains. Or snows. Or when it’s your third straight day of record heat. It’s not all fun and games, kid.” He slings an arm around Race’s shoulders. “Jack shown you the lodging house yet?”

“Yeah. Old man Kloppman’s soup is swell.”

“It sure is. Let’s head there then. Jack’ll probably meet us there with Crutchie.”

Sure enough, Jack’s waiting when they arrive, his face relaxing when he sees Race coming. Race talks his ear off for the next hour, chattering excitedly about every aspect of his morning. Jack helps Race and Crutchie pay Kloppman for food and board, and soon the old man passes out bowls of soup and more of the hard, crusty bread.

Race eats ravenously, the food even better without the flavor of desperation on his tongue. Crutchie and Jack eat just as quickly, and then the boys split of into smaller groups, lounging around the house as they pass the time until evening bell. A few of the boys are playing games, others napping with their caps tucked over their eyes, a few just chatting quietly. Jack is sitting in a corner, his hands moving easily across a scrap of old newspaper as he sketched.

Race plopped down next to Crutchie on one of the worn couches. “How was ya first day?”

Crutchie grinned. “Awesome! Jack’s really good, and I guess he was right about the leg, cause we sold our papes real fast.”

Race shrugged. “Eh, you don’t need the limp to sell papes. You got personality.”

Crutchie blushed. “Thanks, Racetrack.”

“Sure thing. Look at us, couple ‘a regular newsboys now.”

“Who would’a thunk it?” Crutchie laughed.

Race leaned back against the couch. “I think I’m gonna like it here, Crutch.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

After their successful first day, Drover had no excuses to rid himself of the two boys, so Racetrack and Crutchie proudly claimed their very own bunks in the Duane Street Lodging House and fell asleep to the sound of thirty snoring boys.

The next month was hard, waking up with the early bell, walking and hawking for hours, a quick meal, and right back to it until suppertime. Race never lost his love for selling, but he quickly found a new favorite time of day – the evening. After dinner, the boys would gather in the main room of the lodging house to do whatever they wanted until curfew. While all of these evenings were fun, about once a week, if they begged, Drover would take a seat in the center of the room and tell a story.

He painted a picture with his words as pretty as Jack could paint with his hands. The warm, dry air of Santa Fe in Racetrack’s lungs, the clay buildings rough under his fingertips, the golden sunset sparkling across the mountaintops. He quickly realized why Jack was so enamored with the place, even if Race himself wasn’t sure he’d enjoy it. It was a place that was quiet and peaceful and free of the worries and cares of New York. A place where children didn’t starve or beg or get tossed to the streets unwanted. In short, it was a fairytale, and Racetrack had outgrown fairytales a long time ago.

Still, listening to Drover talk, Race could almost forget that too.

Eventually, his body adjusted to the life, to the weight of the papes, to the early mornings, to the endless walking. He and Crutchie traded off selling with Jack and Specs. Days with Specs were easy and calm, a steady presence at his back and a warm hand ruffling his hair. Days with Jack were fun and exciting, daring each other to sell faster, to move faster. Race found himself gravitating towards the older boys more and more, finding a place next to Jack in the evenings or lingering by Specs at the distribution center. He’d missed having someone care about him.

Still, things could only go perfect for so long.

Race shot up, his breathing harsh against his ears as he searched the dark room, frantic with a panic he couldn’t quite remember.

“Racetrack?”

Race flinched, but a moment later the voice registered and he turned to it instinctually. “Jack?”

“Hey.” The Manhattan second’s voice was low and soothing. “What’s up kiddo?”

Race shook his head, but couldn’t quite stop the whimper that escaped.

Jack sighed. “C’mere, kid.”

Race scrambled for the ladder, touching down on the floor on feather-light feet. Jack held out a hand, and Race took it, feeling very small as Jack led him through the bunk room and to a cracked window. Before Race could ask what was happening, Jack slid the window open and climbed out, tugging on Race’s hand in invitation.

Race followed trustingly.

Jack led him up another ladder, the metal creaking lightly under Race’s bare feet as they climbed. He felt himself settle as they reached a platform at the top.

In reality, it was just a fire escape, a rickety metal thing hanging off the side of the house. But this high up, with a gentle breeze blowing, Race felt like his problems were far, far away.

Jack sat down on a blanket that had been stuffed into one corner. Race could see bits of paper poking out of the top of one of the pipes beside him.

“Is this your secret place or somethin’?”

Jack gave him a little grin. “Something like that, yeah. It’s peaceful up here. I can just… get lost for a while.”

Race sat next to him, a little hesitant. “Why are you showing it to me?”

Jack slung an arm around him, easy and affectionate, and Race melted into the warm comfort.

“Well, I was thinking I’m not the only one who needed to get away for a bit.”

Now that he was calmer, Race could feel the tense lines of Jack’s shoulder’s beneath him. He looked up at Jack. “Did you have a nightmare too?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

“Oh. Wanna talk about it?”

“Wanna talk about yours?”

Race shifted uncomfortably. “I will if you will.” He decided bravely.

Jack sighed, clearly hesitant. “Fine.”

Race bit his lip. “Can you go first?”

“I dreamt of the Refuge. Ya heard of it?”

Race shuddered. “Only stories.”

“Well, they’s all true. The man who runs it, Snyder, he ain’t a nice man. You stay far away from him, Racetrack, promise me.”

“I promise.” Race swallowed. “I dreamed of the place I lived when I was a kid. My parents were immigrants, and we lived crammed in this tiny place with a dozen other families. There was this one man who used to get drunk and beat his kid.”

Jack’s arm tightened around him.

“One day the kid just left, and I never saw him again. It was the worst day of my life.” Race brushed a hand across his eyes.

Jack was tense beside him. “What was his name?”

“What?”

“The kid, the one who ran away. What was his name?”

Race thought carefully. “I don’t remember. I was only six. I used to just call him Cissa.”

Jack moved, turning to face Race and tipping his head back, Jack’s calloused hand cupping his cheeks as the older boy searched his face. “Toes?”

Race’s mouth fell open. “Cissa?”

Jack laughed wetly. “Shit, kiddo. Little Tony Higgins. You grew up fine.”

Race’s eyes flooded with tears. “I thought you died! You never came home!”

Jack’s eyes clouded. “I’m so sorry kiddo. Pa woulda killed me if I’d stayed. He almost did that last time. Barely made it here.” He stroked his thumbs over Race’s cheeks, wiping away the tears. “I never did forget you though. Thought about going back for ya a hundred times, but afta ya ma died, you an’ ya pa moved out and I couldn’t find ya.”

Race threw himself forward, gripping Jack tightly around the middle. He felt the other boy wrap himself around him, a feeling of home and safety Race hadn’t known in years flooding over him.

“S’alright, Racer.” Jack whispered quietly. “I gotcha now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more about Cissa and Toes, keep an eye on Minute by Minute!


End file.
